


Melt Your Headaches

by cecilkirk



Series: fic prompts [14]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Ryden, literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:57:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't know how to cope with a headache. Luckily, Brendon does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melt Your Headaches

The thing about headaches is that they affect everything.

Pain was pressure in his forehead and heaviness behind his eyes and tightness on his neck. His mood plummeted, bitter words slipping through his teeth before his good demeanor could catch them. Moreover, it left his body with an ache of defeat and sadness.

He just wanted the day to be over with.

He accidentally slams his locker, and the noise is jarring enough to make him grit his teeth. A hand finds his shoulder, but the touch is too much for his tenuous mood.

“What do you want, Brendon?” he spits.

“Whoa there,” Brendon says, holding his hands up in defense. “Just wanted to know if we were still going out to dinner tonight.”

Ryan starts toward the doors, and Brendon follows alongside him. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got a killer headache.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Brendon says. He takes Ryan’s hand, interlocking their fingers. Dense pain pulses in the back of Ryan’s skull.

The sunlight is invasive enough to make Ryan’s jaw clench and his knees buckle a little. He parts ways with Brendon, headed to his car.

“Hey now,” Brendon says, stopping him so he can press a kiss into Ryan’s hair. “Feel better, all right?”

“I’ll try,” Ryan couples with a weak grin. He just wanted to sleep.

 

A certain kind of sadness always filled Ryan when he got headaches. Maybe it was the embarrassment at something unseen causing him so much pain. Despite knowing it was inevitable and that many people had it much worse than he, the sadness was creeping into his extremities, weighing him down.

He lay in complete darkness in his room, his go-to method of ameliorating the pain. He felt too sad to try medication; he felt as though he didn’t deserve it. And when his headache would pass, he would think back and realize it was a ridiculous notion. But in this moment, it lived nonetheless, ridiculousness and all.

His door opens, and he throws a pillow over his head to blot out the light.

“You okay, man?”

Ryan sits up. It knocks loose the pain that had solidified, but it scatters the pieces around his skull.

“What are you doing here?” Ryan asks.

“Just wanted to make sure you were all right. I was worried,” Brendon says. He sits on the empty half of Ryan’s bed, shutting the door behind him. Immediately, Ryan’s headache lightens at the lack of light, and he sighs in relief.

“You don’t want to watch me suffer,” Ryan offers lightly as he lies down.

“Of course not,” Brendon says.

Ryan is taken aback by his genuine answer. His face burns.

“I’m just going to sleep, Bren. Go do something fun.”

Ryan feels the bed’s tension shift as Brendon lies down. “I don’t want to. I just want to be with you.”

Ryan is glad Brendon can’t see how red his face is. “Okay.”

He puts his face in the pillow, lying on his stomach. He feels Brendon rub his back for a few minutes until he falls asleep.

 

Ryan opens his eyes to complete darkness again, but now his headache’s gone, sucked out of his skull. His head feels light enough to actually function, let a smile grace his lips, so he does. As he sits up, he also realizes Brendon’s gone.

An odd, thin sadness seeps into Ryan’s head. He hadn’t really thanked Brendon for coming over, or even just for dealing with him. He feels groggy from the sleep and dirty from the shame. It’s a combination repulsive enough to get him out of bed.

He treads into the kitchen Brendon standing at the counter, pushing a knife into a pan. Ryan smiles just at the sight of him, the realization he hasn’t actually left.

“Hope you’re in the mood for brownies,” Brendon says.

“Oh, always,” Ryan replies. Brendon looks up and grins, happy to see he’s back to his normal self.

“If you want to pick out a movie, I’ll bring these right out.”

“Sure,” Ryan says.

He pops in an old favorite of theirs, a little full of every genre. Cheesy, indubitably, but loved by both nonetheless.

Brendon sits flush against him, legs crossed. He scoots the coffee table flush against the couch. Ryan leans into Brendon’s shoulder, but he wraps his arms around his waist and pulls Ryan into his lap. He settles his nose against Ryan’s neck, and Ryan grins instinctually.

Little attention is paid to the movie.

All Ryan thinks about is Brendon’s arm around his waist, Brendon kissing his neck, Brendon’s hand mingled in his. A warm, light air fills Ryan’s head; because it is so complete opposite his headache, by juxtaposition that alone is enough to make him happy. Alongside Brendon, he feels nothing short of wonderful.

The movie draws to an end, the pan only half eaten. But Brendon pulls Ryan off his lap.

“I gotta get going. Sorry, Ry,” he says, standing and patting his pockets.

“That’s fine,” Ryan says, and he means it. This had been serendipitous; he couldn’t be sad at its passing. “And hey, thanks for dealing with me today, and for coming over. It really means a lot.”

Brendon kisses Ryan on the cheek. “I couldn’t let you be miserable alone.”

Ryan grins, and he throws his arms around Brendon. Something about their hugs felt far more intimate than kissing. It was warm, its effects permeating Ryan’s skin and sinking into his core. It felt solid, like some sort of promise—of future happiness, of current contentment, something. He didn’t know. Whatever it was, he could only hope for repetition.

Brendon pulls away. “I’m glad you feel better.” He kisses Ryan briefly, and it’s completely saccharine. Ryan feels warmth bloom in his chest, grinning against Brendon’s lips.

“I love you,” he says, placing a hand on Ryan’s waist.

Ryan never noticed Brendon had freckles on his nose. It’s a discovery he wouldn’t have made without being under the pale light of the living room lamp, on this day, in this moment. This was completely serendipitous, and Ryan could not feel any luckier.

“I love you too, Bren,” he says.

Brendon grins, kissing him once more before leaving.

Ryan sits back down on the couch. He sees Brendon’s sweatshirt draped on the chair across the room. Whether left by accident or on purpose, he doesn’t know. He pulls it on anyway.

He covers his hands with the sleeves, covering his lips with them, breathing in the scent. It was comfort and warmth and the unique brand of love that lived in Brendon’s heart. The kind that lived on his back, left by Brendon’s palm. The kind that lived in the half-eaten pan of brownies at his feet.

The kind that was just for him.


End file.
